Untouchable Angel
by incendiopuff
Summary: Sherlock knew he watched and Sherlock knew he desired him, but Sherlock was untouchable; he was a dark angel in a league of his own.


John stood by the doorway to their flat, leaning back against it with his arms folded and his weight resting on his good leg. He was watching Sherlock. Said detective was standing by the open window, playing his violin and gazing into the distance. John's blue eyes studied him, as they often did when he wrongly thought Sherlock wouldn't notice. The pale light filtered through the window, falling upon Sherlock with the tenderness of a feather's caress. The shadows beneath Sherlock's cheekbones darkened, making his pale creamy skin more prominent, and the blue-grey eye John could see was intense in its clarity. Eyes like that could turn you to stone with their piercing glare, or have you melting in their softness the next moment.

Sherlock's eyes were even more striking when framed by his dark curls, curls that fell in an unruly mop over his creamy skin, tantalisingly revealing his long, pale neck. John wanted to touch Sherlock's hair, run his fingers through the soft locks and trace his astonishingly stunning features. His gaze fell over Sherlock's strong nose and down to his flawless, utterly kissable cupid's bow. His bottom lip jutted out slightly, practically inviting John to come and kiss him, to worship him.

Sherlock's strong jaw was curved beautifully above the violin, and the collar of his deep purple shirt was open, teasingly revealing the slender neck that John so wanted to admire with his hands and lips. His skin was so pale it wouldn't take any effort to make love bites bloom over that gorgeous neck. John silently cursed Sherlock's choice of attire; that purple shirt strained to hold itself together over his chest, and everything about it just hinted at the delectable body beneath. Sherlock's cuffs were undone, showing John the tender skin of his wrists, and Sherlock's collarbones poked out where his shirt was unfastened. His long, dexterous fingers held the violin with the utmost care, flexing irresistibly. And the _colour. _John never knew that a colour could suit a person so well, but the deep purple complemented Sherlock's skin like strawberries matched cream, although it was a redundant comparison.

How easy it would be to loosen the buttons and slip his shirt off his sculpted shoulders, revealing an expanse of creamy skin. John would waste no time in claiming it as his, kissing every inch of Sherlock's exposed flesh and leaving small marks wherever his lips crossed. He would uncover Sherlock's nipples from that wretched shirt, and take them in his mouth. He'd entice deep, baritone gasps from those pastel lips, broken moans of his name. He'd tease Sherlock as the other man writhed and shivered from his attentions, arching up into his talented touch, _pleading_ with him.

Then there were his trousers. Those tailored black trousers that were about two sizes too small, hugging the curve of his arse and making his legs seem even more long and slender. God, Sherlock's _legs._ No matter how many times he looked at them he was amazed at how lovely and long they were. John _ached_ to touch those legs, to run his fingers down them, to caress the creamy flesh. He yearned to unbutton those black trousers and expose even more of Sherlock's exquisite body. John craved to touch Sherlock's burning flesh, hot with need, and coax delicious moans out of him, have his hips arching into his hand, to have Sherlock completely and utterly surrender to him.

John was drawn out of his fantasy by the painful throbbing in his own jeans, and he let out a shuddering, broken breath. He swept his gaze over Sherlock one last time before gathering his wits and departing, to return to his room and the familiarity of his own touch. He knew Sherlock knew. Sherlock knew he watched and Sherlock knew he desired him, but Sherlock was untouchable; he was a dark angel in a league of his own.

In the ensuing solitude, Sherlock stopped playing and waited. He waited for the day John would realise his own attraction, realise if anything, Sherlock was out of his league. He waited for the day John would realise his love was requited, and he waited for the day John would claim him.


End file.
